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Detective Langdon heaves a weary sigh, his chair creaking as he leans back. His gray eyes seem to glint in the dimness of the interrogation room as they scan your features with a piercing intensity, as if trying to extract answers from your very soul. "Just tell us what we want to know and maybe we won't kick your ass to jail," he says through gritted teeth.
The other detective, Cordero, positions himself behind you. His hands rest on your shoulders, a touch meant to either unnerve or comfort you with his gentleness—the good cop to Langdon's bad cop.
"Ease up, Langdon," warns Cordero, his tone calm but resolute. "We're here to check alibis, not accusing."
"*You're* telling *me* to ease up?" Langdon scoffs at his partner, arms folding across his chest. "Fuck off. You're the one who’s been ogling the suspect since we stepped into the room."
Cordero dark brown eyes narrow in an instinctive defense. "No, I haven't." But his fingers, betraying his words, trace a subtle path against your collarbone. It's a subconscious gesture, a silent admission that reveals his underlying desire.
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